A Different Dream

It took me a while to figure out how this dream was different. My typical dream involving my dad starts as a shouting match and ends in physical violence. This time my dad was being a jerk like always, and it still woke me up. But I didn’t feel afraid. Instead of waking up relieved to discover I was dreaming, I woke up wishing it had been real.

I was at a banquet of sorts; talking to a professor I work with. He told me he had gotten in trouble a few years ago for taking some computer equipment home with him. Curious about the situation, I started asking for details only to be interrupted by my father. “Oh Hush!” I tried to ignore him and go on with my questions, but I started having trouble speaking. I was stuttering and having trouble thinking of the words I wanted to use. I asked what components the professor had actually taken home. And again my father interrupted.

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Actually, I do know what I’m talking about. Can you just be quiet and let me finish my conversation?”
“I’ll be back in a minute, and then we’re leaving.”
“What? Did you forget that I’m an adult now? I don’t have to leave just because you wish it.”

He left, and I was able to finish my conversation with the professor. True to his word my father returned, with a fishing pole. In reality my father is about 3 inches taller than me. In this dream he was well over a foot taller.

“We’re leaving.”
“No. I’m not leaving with you. I don’t even like you. Do you have any idea how often I dream about strangling you. You’re not welcome in my life. I asked you to stay away, and now you’ll never see me again. This is your fault; a result of your actions.”

Here’s the odd part. Instead of this turning into a brawl, he became teary eyed and appeared to be sad.

The fishing pole is kind of a weird element. My dad never liked to fish really. I don’t recall him ever taking my brothers or me fishing, but apparently he takes my nephew fishing now and then.

I usually don’t have dreams or nightmares involving my parents unless I have some contact with them, but I read something really interesting yesterday. It’s something I hope to assimilate in connection to my parents.

"Seek not the acceptance of others lest you make yourself their slave." - Tao De Ching

A Clearer Picture

My inspiration for writing has dwindled since I started posting here. It’s probably for the best considering how angry I was when I started. I’ve been thinking a lot about how my relationship with my parents has devolved. I’ve also been reading this blog I happened upon. It’s mostly poetry from a young woman convinced that her parents do not accept her ‘as is’. I don’t know any real details, but her writing has refreshed my perspective on parents. I hope her writing is helping her as much as it is helping me.

As cliché as it sounds, The Breakfast Club was, for a long time, my favorite movie. The odd thing however, is that I really didn’t have any problems with my parents until I started college. Compared to The Breakfast Club I thought my parents were pretty normal. We had arguments while I was growing up, but I hadn’t acquired this hostility until long after I was out from under their roof. I got to college and started seeing how my friends interacted with their parents, and only then did I see the failings of my own guardians. It was most obvious when a friend of mine’s father offered to help me pay for school if I needed it. He wasn’t filthy rich; he just saw something my parents didn’t. I think that’s when I started to reevaluate their role in my life.

Pill Poppers

Elvis has been on steroids for a week now. Thankfully, his cough seems to be gone. Giving a cat a pill can be hazardous to your health. I’ve heard horror stories about getting clawed and bitten while trying to open a cat’s mouth to drop a pill in. Most cats tend to dislike this event, but Elvis is no ordinary cat. He doesn’t enjoy taking pills, but he’s never gotten angry about it either. He’s pretty finicky too. He’ll only eat dry cat food that’s in three shapes and three colors, so crunching medicine up and hiding it in canned cat food is not an option. We were a little worried because these pills are twice as big as the barbiturates we use to give him. He had this psychotic tail chasing problem for a while. He also used to growl at thin air, which we decided was a bad thing. In the end we determined that he was under stimulated, so the stork brought him a sister. He’s a pretty happy cat now.

So his steroids had to be given twice a day for three days, once a day for a week, and then every other day. This morning as S and I stumbled around the kitchen half asleep as we always do, I realized that Elvis was sitting quietly in the middle our tiny kitchen floor. That’s a pretty hazardous place for a cat to sit so early in the morning. Finally I looked down and asked “Why are you sitting in the middle of the road? You’re about to get stepped on.” Elvis looked back at me and telepathically said “Isn’t it time for my pill?”

I couldn’t be more proud.

Holiday Cheer Revisited

I’m finally in the mood to elaborate on the Snow Storm fiasco I mentioned before. My tirade began the moment I shut the door on the poor unsuspecting UPS lady who delivered my unwanted package. I paced across the living room a couple of times, before my bare foot decided that the best thing to do would be to kick the crap out of the offending cardboard box. It only took three or four hits for my foot to penetrate the outer shell, spilling holiday cheer all over the floor in the form of styrofoam peanuts, which the cats quickly herded into every nook and cranny of the house. After that quick phone call, which might have been avoided had the box taken a beating better, I put my shoes on to follow through on my promise to transfer evil box to dumpster. As with all best laid plans, I was easily thwarted. In picking up the box I was reminded that it was addressed to both S and me, so I figured the impact of community property law deserved consideration.

I knew what they had sent for me, as my nephew and two brothers all got the same thing. Theirs were not delayed by the snow storm. The delay had convinced me that they weren’t sending us anything. I actually had thought they were finally agreeing to leave me alone, and it felt really good. Anyhow, you know those Plasma Lightning Ball things you can get at Spencer Gifts? Yeah, well it didn’t survive the attack from my left foot, so it still went to the dumpster as planned. Oddly enough, the gift for S was a really nice necklace. (She finally showed it to me a week ago.) This is not the plastic 14-in-one Avon heart shaped necklace they sent one year. This necklace is exactly the kind of thing S likes.

So here’s the new problem. S, being the delightfully well mannered person that she is, would like to send a thank you card for the necklace. (The whole thing was sort of a Christmas/wedding gift.) You can imagine my horror at the thought of S becoming pen pals with my mother. It is bad enough she persists in trying to bully her way into my life, but she’s definitely not above bullying her way into my marriage too. After my divorce, she wanted to contact my ex to give her a guilt trip. “I just want her to know that I wish I had gotten to know her better.” My mother is really over the top on the clueless scale.

S and I talked about it. She decided not to send a thank you. Of course, now I feel a little crappy about that. It just never ends.

Geek Fest & A Big Stick

We finally did it. Sunday we were invited to a friend’s house to watch the Lord of the Rings extended edition. Yes, all 12 hours. There was plenty of sausage, strawberries, and of course po-ta-toes. It’s a great story, which to my discredit I have never read all the way through. Reading wasn’t exactly encouraged in our house. In fact, it was often discouraged while I was growing up. My mother nearly blew a gasket when she saw me reading The Wizard of Earthsea by Ursula Leguin. Her eyes flared up and she belched “That’s not one of those magic books is it? You’d better not be reading that witchcraft trash.” Witchcraft indeed; little Ged is going to team up with Gandalf and turn me into a devout Slitherin.

You see my parents are the kind of Christians that give Christians a bad name. I know this because my extended family is pretty religious. My parents currently attend my great uncle’s church, where my father’s brother is a board member. They’re nice happy normal people. I disagree with my uncle on just about everything even remotely connected to religion, theology, philosophy, or politics, but I can still have a conversation with him and not once feel the urge to throttle him. My parents on the other hand haven’t mastered that ‘plays well with others’ command.

Anyhow, before I get off track I want to tell you about an early discrepancy I discovered in my parents beliefs. I was a pretty good kid growing up. I never really got in any trouble in school; my grades were always good, etc. Still, I had the occasional (I think normal) spat with mommy dearest. Whenever she was losing an argument, she would hold her hand up with her palm facing me, close her eyes and say “In the name of Jesus be gone.”

Her dismal grasp of the New Testament left her to believe that any disagreement I had with her had to be the work of some devilry, most likely demonic possession. When she opened her eyes I always did my best to cock my head, smile, and say “I’m still here M.” It really hurt my feelings sometimes. I couldn’t have my own opinion. I had to be possessed by the devil. If that isn’t magic, I need a new dictionary. I wish she could see the LOTR scene where Gandalf casts Sauroman out of Theoden King.

Lucky for me she never carried a staff.

Dependents

Kimber is 10 months old. She smells like dryer sheets, and cries when she realizes she’s alone in a room. She wears a collar with a little bell on it, and we hear it ring all night long. She feels safe in the little cat carrier by the stairs. Kimber knows she is our daughter.

Elvis is three and a half. He sleeps on the bed in between S and me. He knows when I’m awake. If I open my eyes he will immediately start ramming his head in my face. It’s his way of saying “Scratch my head human! Scratch my head now!” It usually works.

Our son is a complete momma’s boy. That’s fitting though, since S found him in the middle of the street when he was no more than two weeks old. Elvis often sleeps with one paw on my face. His momma gets a face full of licks when she picks him up, but for me he will just touch his nose to my nose, or just breathe in my ear while he rubs his furry cheek against mine. He knows I do not like kisses. Elvis does not like the little carrier by the stairs. When S moved here Elvis spent three days in a carrier. It was warm when we put him in it. He was in the middle of a blizzard when we took him out of it. For a cat from New Orleans, snow clearly marks the end of the world.

We are waiting for a call from the vet. She was supposed to call yesterday. Elvis has been wheezing and coughing. We think he may have asthma. It’s not the end of the world. It just breaks my heart to see him wheezing.

Last year the cat my parents feed was hit by a car. What was left of his tail became infected. My brother urged them to take him to the vet. My brothers and I all live in different states from my parents, so there’s no way for us to intervene. “No, we’ll pray for him; he’ll be fine.”

I think I’ll call Elvis’ doctor now.

Adornment

I have cerebral palsy. It hangs on me like uncommon jewelry, like a bracelet that stays hidden under my sleeve until I stretch out my arm and let it dangle in the sun. It is there when I want it to be, and on rare occasion, it is there when I do not want it to be.

“That is an interesting bracelet. Is it Australian?”
“No, it’s cerebral palsy.”
“Oh, you wear it well.”
“Thank you. It was a gift. I keep it with me always.”